


After The Party

by peachy_chulanont



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, DJ Otabek Altin, Drunk Yuri Plisetsky, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mila is the best wingman, Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky Are Best Friends, Otabek doesn't drink, Otabek is staying at Yuri's St. Petersburg apartment, POV Yuri Plisetsky, set a few years in the future, they're both oblivious dorks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:10:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachy_chulanont/pseuds/peachy_chulanont
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky and Otabek Altin have been friends for years, so it's only natural that they fight (perhaps more so when one is visiting the other, leaving no place to be alone). Clearing up the problem is easier, though, when Yuri hasn't gone out and gotten too drunk to remember why it is that Otabek is mad.*I want to be clear that they're both over 18 in this fic because it's set a few years after the first season of the anime; I didn't change their ages only for the fic*





	After The Party

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a few different songs, so here's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/deathbyblondie/playlist/6FmvpjkaJQ2rZ6JDHEfq9p) to listen to while you read

 Yuri didn’t remember pressing the call button over Otabek’s photo, but that was definitely Otabek on the other line, grumbling a question in Kazakh.

 

“Beka,” the name was slurred from the back of Yuri’s throat, muffled by the sounds of the club. Somehow, god damn him, _somehow_ Otabek understood.

 

“Where are you?” there wasn’t any discernable emotion in Otabek’s voice as he switched to Russian, and Yuri wasn’t going to kid himself. He was _drunk_ , not stupid. Even so, there was some kind of emotion rising in his throat as he looked around, suddenly aware of how alone he was.

 

“Fucked if I know,” Yuri grumbled into the phone, knowing he sounded like an ass but unwilling to do anything about it.

 

There was a heavy sigh from the receiver, and in Yuri’s mind Otabek was running a hand over his face, frustrated. “Yuri -”

 

God, he hated that. Hated that Otabek was using his proper name, hated that it wasn’t _Yura_ rolling off of his tongue. Yuri slumped back against the grimy brick wall of the club, trying to focus. “Beka - I think it’s that club Mila showed us. Come get me.”

 

Yuri might’ve imagined the soft grunt of acknowledgement from Otabek; the club was so loud that he couldn’t discern his heartbeat from the bass reverbing off the walls.

 

“Beka?” Yuri tried again, wondering if the call was even connected anymore.

 

The roar of Otabek’s bike coming to life came through the receiver and Yuri almost dropped his phone in relief. Instead, he snagged a drink off the nearest table and downed it in one go, wrinkling his nose at the burn of gin.

 

That’s when the line clicked off, and Yuri finally lowered the phone from his ear. He felt slightly better, still far too drunk and wildly unsteady, but better. Absently, he reached out to swipe another drink from an abandoned table, but a waitress slipping by shot him a dirty look and he thought better of it. Even the _Ice Tiger of Russia_ knew better than to pick _every_ fight.

 

This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go. Otabek was supposed to be there, by his side, not wherever the _hell_ he was instead. Stupid Otabek. This was his fault. If he’d just let loose for once, if he’d just relax enough for Yuri to have some fun…

 

But no, damn him, Otabek hadn’t come to the club at all. He was angry; Yuri couldn’t remember what he’d done, but he’d never seen the Kazakh so upset. _I’ll have to ask him when he gets here_ , Yuri thought, glancing down at his phone. Inexplicably, he felt like his vision was lagging, images blurring together in a dizzying trail of motion. Okay, so maybe he was more drunk than he thought, but could you blame him? Otabek had let him go alone - _alone_ \- to this place, where they were supposed to be _together,_ nevermind that Otabek didn’t drink. Yuri leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, ignoring the pull of his hair caught between brick and his shoulders.

 

When his phone buzzed in his hand, Yuri was startled out of the reverie he’d slipped in to. How long had it been? The scene of gyrating young Russians in a variance of lights in front of him hadn’t changed; perhaps his phone hadn’t gone off at all. But there it was, the (blurry, shaking) picture of one of Otabek’s rare smiles lighting up Yuri’s phone to indicate a call. Yuri knew that if it wasn’t so bloody loud in the club he’d hear the 8-bit remix of _Welcome to the Madness_ Otabek had made for him three summers back. _I can’t believe we did that_ , Yuri’s mind whispered - or had he spoken aloud? Suddenly he was fifteen again, sliding across the ice to Otabek, shirt riding up and the biting air of the rink welcome against his burning skin, the soft graze of Otabek’s teeth against his fingers. Yuri shivered in spite of the heat of the club.

 

The screen of his phone went black while Yuri was lost in his memories. Why had it been on anyway? He didn’t have time to wonder, though, because a commotion at the other end of the club caught his attention. It seemed someone had pushed past the bouncers at the club’s doors. How amusing. Through his blurry eyes and the spinning lights, Yuri watched a short, leather-clad man shoulder his way through the dancing Russians. The man outright _bodychecked_ a couple that were too close for him to slip between them, moving forward like a storm. _Damn, who’s he?_ Yuri found himself wondering quite sincerely, a cat-like grin sliding across his face.

 

It wasn’t until the man was a mere meter away from Yuri that he realized that it was Otabek, a dark frown on his face.

 

His body moving before his alcohol-saturated mind had a chance to think, Yuri flung himself at Otabek. “Beka!” he cried, nuzzling into the junction of Otabek’s neck and shoulder. Otabek let him; Yuri didn’t quite understand why the Kazakh’s hands weren’t on him too, but that was something that could be resolved. Oh, it was so good to see Otabek - did Otabek know? Did he know how happy Yuri was to see him?

 

“You came,” he purred happily into Otabek’s neck, fingers coming up to card through the loose dark curls at the crown of Otabek’s head. Except Otabek had tied his hair back in a bun, which made it difficult for Yuri to play with, so naturally he began to untie Otabek’s hair for him. Otabek leaned away, though, and it took Yuri a heartbeat to catch on to the rejection. Perhaps he didn’t mean it - Yuri reached out again to run his hands through Otabek’s hair, but Otabek caught his wrist in a wide, rough hand and fixed Yuri with a dark look.

 

“Are you ready to go?” his voice was far too monotone, far too low with the thrum of music surrounding them.

“Go? You just _got_ here,” Yuri laughed, draping an arm around Otabek’s leather-wrapped shoulders to pull him closer. Why was Otabek being so grumpy? Perhaps he didn’t like the DJ at this club - that was probably it. Otabek was a _much_ better DJ. Surely he wasn’t jealous -

 

“No, Yuri, I’m not jealous,” Otabek sighed, sliding out from under Yuri’s arm. Oh. Yuri hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud… he shrugged and took Otabek’s hand - and Otabek let him, this time - and smiled down through his eyelashes at his dearest friend.

 

“Why are you so _grumpy_ , then, Beka?”

 

Otabek closed his eyes and sighed again.

 

Yuri was hit with a pang of emotion at the sight - it simply wasn’t fair for Otabek to be so lovely. The lines of his face were sharp and angular, and Yuri wanted nothing more than to kiss those cheekbones. So he did. He moved sloppily, not quite hitting the spot on Otabek’s cheek he’d aimed for, but it was only a start. Yuri smiled proudly to himself - he’d just kissed the Hero of Kazakhstan on the cheek, take _that_ Mila!

 

“Yuri,” Otabek snapped - _snapped_ , snapped like Yakov did at Viktor - and stepped back, pulling Yuri with him. “We’re going. You’ve had too much to drink.”

 

Yuri shrugged, the cat-like grin sliding back onto his lips. “A little, I guess,” he slurred, wondering how Otabek was able to take those few steps backwards before turning and hauling Yuri through the crowd. Yuri secretly loved this, loved Otabek ordering him around. He wondered if Otabek knew, if he knew that he was the only one who could treat Yuri like this. They were outside now, the bite of the night air after the stagnant heat of the club making Yuri shiver. Otabek still had a hand clasped tightly around his wrist; he used it now to pull Yuri around and to face him.

 

“God, Yuri, how drunk _are_ you?”

 

Yuri scowled. “I’m not even _drunk_ ,” he said, rolling his eyes and hoping Otabek was at least a _little_ convinced.

 

He wasn’t, of course.

 

“You’re doing the thing where you say your thoughts out loud.”

 

Yuri crossed his arms, huffing an indignant sigh that made him just a little too lightheaded. “So?”

 

Otabek squeezed his eyes shut for a second, rubbed a hand over his face. So he was frustrated - why couldn’t they go back in the club? Yuri could help Otabek get un-frustrated…

 

“That! That’s exactly what I’m saying, Yuri. Damn it, you can’t _say_ shit like that,”

 

“What did I say? I didn’t say anything!” Yuri protested, tripping over his feet in his haste to catch up with Otabek, who was marching to where he’d hastily parked his bike. If he hadn’t been so inebriated he might’ve blushed; it was probably a sin for an ice skating gold-medalist - someone who had broken Viktor Nikiforov’s own records and a _Russian_ , no less - to be this ungainly, even under the influence of far, far too much vodka. If Lilia could see him now she’d surely have a heart attack.

 

Otabek didn’t answer, just yanked a helmet from the back of the bike and plonked it down on Yuri’s head, obviously irritated but still impossibly gentle as he smoothed Yuri’s hair back behind his ear so the chin strap could be fastened. Yuri’s eyes flickered shut and he turned his head to press his lips into Otabek’s hand. Otabek didn’t pull away, but when Yuri opened his eyes, there was something unreadable in the Kazakh’s eyes. He looked sad. Why was he sad?

 

This time Yuri felt his lips moving, knew he was speaking his thoughts again, but he didn’t quite mind this time. Otabek shook his head and gave Yuri the soft smile reserved just for him, as if to say _look, I’m not sad at all!_

 

It clicked belatedly in Yuri’s brain that Otabek was trying to reassure him. _Why_?

 

But Otabek was astride the bike now, looking over his shoulder with those dark eyes locked on Yuri. Yuri felt like he was dragging his long limbs in a most unattractive fashion as he staggered over and mounted the bike behind Otabek and wrapped his arms around him. As soon as Otabek was certain that Yuri was secure on the bike behind him, he took off.

 

**✧**

 

Yuri only had to make Otabek stop so he could vomit once. He was quite proud of that, really. Otabek was a careful driver, but that didn’t mean much when you’d been steadily drinking for - well, Yuri didn’t know what time it was, but he was certain he’d been out for a few hours.

 

They arrived at Yuri’s apartment safely all the same. Yuri, away from the thrum of music and steady flow of alcohol, was faced with how drunk he really was as he followed Otabek across the apartment’s dead lobby to the lift.

 

Being so late at night, the lift was thankfully empty. Otabek’s obvious irritation was finally clear to Yuri, the reassuring "smile" be damned - it had settled around his body and sunk into his skin, and Yuri felt misplaced guilt rising in his stomach. Otabek’s jaw was clenching and unclenching in a way that normally made Yuri’s stomach lurch in a completely different way. But Yuri’s apartment was on one of the upper floors of the building; they’d be in the creaky old lift for a good minute. Yuri intended to spend that minute leaning against the railing and acting as sober as possible; Otabek had other ideas, though. As soon as the lift door closed, he whirled on Yuri, effectively pushing the him against the lift wall.

 

“What the hell were you _thinking_?” he hissed up at Yuri, the anger in his voice something Yuri was totally unused to. Perhaps his confusion read on his face, for just as suddenly as he’d flared up, Otabek seemed to sink into himself, and he stepped away, looking at the floor.

 

Yuri didn’t know what he’d done to upset Otabek, but he reached out to grab the hand clenched in a fist by his side for comfort anyway. Otabek let Yuri take his hand easily, and even threaded his fingers through Yuri’s. Maybe Otabek needed comfort, too.

 

When the lift door opened he led Yuri along gently, letting the slightly taller blond lean on his arm for support. At Yuri’s door, Otabek looked to Yuri for keys, but Yuri could only offer a sheepish grimace. Otabek muttered something in Kazakh - from what Yuri could make out, at least one of the words was _‘fuck’_ \- and reached into his own pocket. Something seemed to bloom in Yuri’s stomach, seeing his spare key on Otabek’s keyring. Sure, Otabek had visited St. Petersburg many times now, had slept over at Yuri’s countless times, really, but it still gave him a thrill. It was so _domestic_.

 

Otabek’s shoulders seemed to stiffen as he slotted the key in the lock, and Yuri clamped a hand over his mouth. He needed to get a handle on his words before he got himself in trouble.

 

“It’s too late for that, Yura,” Otabek muttered as Yuri slipped through the door as he held it open. Yuri couldn’t bite back a smug grin, though: Otabek had called him _Yura_ again.

 

“I’m still mad at you, you know,” Otabek said darkly, a hand on Yuri’s waist to guide him forward into the apartment. At this, Yuri was stumbling, trying to fix Otabek with a glare and walk at the same time. The cat had been waiting at the apartment door; he was trying to weave between Yuri and Otabek’s legs, which definitely wasn’t helping Yuri walk.

 

“I didn’t say my thoughts this time, Beka,”

 

Otabek shrugged, not looking Yuri in the eye, but carefully lifting Potya out of the way with the toe of his boot under the cat’s stomach. Thankfully, Potya didn’t seem to begrudge Otabek much for this. “I know you. You don’t have to tell me what you’re thinking for me to figure it out, usually.”

 

The fluttering was back in Yuri’s stomach. He couldn’t help himself from reaching out and settling a hand at the nape of Otabek’s neck, long fingers rubbing the short hair there absently. Otabek didn’t push him off, but didn’t relax into the touch like Yuri hoped he would. Otabek was still pushing Yuri into the apartment, too, flipping on the occasional light as he guided Yuri towards his bedroom. Yuri didn’t mind; Otabek really was the only one who could push Yuri around like this and live to tell the tale.

 

He bit down hard on his lower lip to regard the man next to him without saying something embarrassing. It was kind of funny, in fact - though smaller in height and broader of shoulder, Otabek could get Yuri to do just about anything - most assumed that it was because he could easily throw Yuri around, but that wasn’t it at all. Yuri _enjoyed_ being at odds with Otabek’s stoicism that so rivaled his own hot temper. Really, the effect Otabek had on Yuri _wasn’t_ funny. In fact, it was maddening. _Maddening_.

 

Otabek drove Yuri _mad_.

 

It only seemed logical to place his own hand over the hand Otabek still had on Yuri’s waist, only seemed logical to push that hand a little lower, _lower_ to the hem of his shirt. Up and under the shirt, stuttering over skin, so Otabek’s wide, rough hand was on the toned flesh of Yuri’s stomach. Otabek grumbled and shouldered Yuri’s bedroom door open, doing his best to pull his hand away from Yuri as he did so. Yuri put up a fight, though, and wound himself tighter around Otabek. _Beka_. His best friend, his only friend, his only and his everything.

 

Otabek lost it then. He shoved Yuri away from him, not particularly roughly but enough to send the drunk blond staggering to his bed.

 

“Yura, cut it out!” Otabek all but shouted, a pink heat settled across his cheeks.

 

Yuri felt the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes then. _God damnit, damnit all to hell_ , he swore mentally, biting his lower lip a little harder while pulling in a deep breath through his nose. Otabek didn’t move from where he stood about a meter away from where Yuri was perched on the edge of the bed. He was looking up at the ceiling, his jaw tensing and relaxing again, clearly upset.

 

“Cut _what_ out?” Yuri was finally able to ask, hating the way his chest hurt. This wasn’t at _all_ the way the night was supposed to go.

 

“Yura, for the love of - I can’t have this conversation with you, you’re too drunk. I’m going.”

 

Yuri felt his lip push out petulantly, puffy and aching from having been gnawed on. “Beka, please, just tell me what I did,”

 

Maybe it was that - Yuri saying _‘please’_. Otabek froze in the doorway, where he’d been about to walk out. He leaned against the doorframe, turned just enough for Yuri to see his profile, but didn’t look him in the eye.

 

“Beka?” Yuri asked again, a swell of nausea rolling in his stomach. Otabek still didn’t look at him, just took a deep breath that caused the leather of his jacket to creak softly.

 

“I’m mad at you,” Otabek began, stating the obvious.

 

Yuri resisted the urge to snap crankily and nodded, which really wasn’t the best choice for the buzzing in his head, and closed his eyes against the nausea. He’d stay right here, he’d _stay here_ and listen to what Otabek had to say.

 

“I’m sorry,” Yuri began to say, but it was too much and he had to surge to his feet and push past Otabek to get to the hall bathroom, where he unceremoniously vomited once again.

 

Otabek was there, threading his fingers into Yuri’s long hair and pulling it back with one hand, the other hand rubbing slow circles on Yuri’s shaking back. He was saying something softly - in Kazakh again, _damn_ him - but when Yuri started to rise, Otabek fell silent once more. He stood and pulled Yuri to his feet, handed him his toothbrush and ducked out of the bathroom to find Yuri a glass of water. As an afterthought, or perhaps a silent comment on how Yuri smelled after vomiting and being in a club for the better part of the night, Otabek tossed a t-shirt to Yuri to change into.

 

After brushing his teeth and shrugging into the fresh shirt (one of Otabek’s, in fact), Yuri trailed him to the kitchen and hauled himself up to sit on the kitchen counter, facing Otabek. The t-shirt was slightly too large, the arms too wide where Otabek had more muscle than Yuri. In spite of finally growing taller than Otabek, Yuri was still slender and somewhat lanky. Sure, this was good for skating with what had been called ‘a languid grace’, but he couldn’t help but be jealous of the pure power that Otabek’s body seemed to radiate.

 

The nausea had faded, but his eyes were still somewhat unfocused. “Beka, come here,” Yuri said, holding his arms out. He needed Otabek close, he needed to be able to see the way the light caught his dark eyes, to see the soft stubble already on Otabek’s cheeks. _Needed_ to.

 

Otabek complied, of course, but didn’t come as close as Yuri had hoped he would, instead coming to stand just out of comfortable reach. Dick. “Drink your water, Yura,”

 

Yuri stuck his tongue out at Otabek’s tired tone, but took a good swig of water anyway. He hadn’t realized how parched he was, and nursed the glass a little longer before remembering the conversation he was itching to have. “Tell me why you’re mad at me, Beka,”

 

Otabek took a deep breath, once again looking away from Yuri’s eyes, instead looking at the glass in Yuri’s hands. “You’ve been toying with me, Yura. You’ve been playing with me, and I hate it. You’re my friend, I don’t know why -”

 

Yuri cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand, frowning and sloshing water. Maybe he _was_ too drunk to have this conversation, because he didn’t know what the hell Otabek was talking about. “Beka, I _really_ don’t know what you mean,”

 

The frustration growing on Otabek’s face broke Yuri’s heart - it was a look he usually shot JJ over dinner with the other skaters when JJ was going off on a tangent, _not_ a look usually directed to Yuri.

 

“Finish your water,” Otabek ordered, and once Yuri did he plucked the glass from his hand and leaned back against the kitchen’s island, still just out of Yuri’s reach. Stalling. Was he keeping his distance because he knew Yuri wanted desperately to wrap his arms around his neck? Was he keeping his distance because that _disgusted_ him? Maybe Yuri had been wrong all along, maybe -

 

The sudden thought made tears prick once again at the corner of Yuri’s eyes.

 

Otabek was pointedly looking down at his feet again, but he spoke all the same, and his voice was enough to pull Yuri’s attention back. “I suppose you don’t recall the argument we had before you left tonight?”

 

Argument? What - oh. _Oh_. The memory came back to Yuri first with a surge of guilt, subsiding into irritation. He closed his eyes, remembering. That’s why he’d gone out to that club in the first place.

 

Otabek had accused him of being reckless, of not caring about anyone other than himself. And he was _wrong_ \- didn’t he know how much Yuri _cared_ , cared about stupid Viktor and Katsudon and even Mila and Yakov and Lilia - and oh, god, how much he cared about Otabek? So out of spite, Yuri had stormed out of his apartment, leaving Otabek seething in Yuri’s guest bedroom, and texted Mila for the address of a club she’d recently discovered while bar-hopping with Georgi. Mila, oblivious to the argument Yuri and Otabek had had, happily sent him the address with a plethora of suggestive emojis and comments about using protection and _thank goodness there’s not practice tomorrow, can you imagine what Yakov would say?_

 

Yuri pressed his fingers into his eyes, pressed until he saw a smattering of light not unlike the ones that had filled the club just hours earlier. God, how had he been so stupid? He forced himself to open his eyes, to look back at Otabek.

 

“I’m sorry, Beka,” why were those words so hard to say?

 

Otabek didn’t look up, though. His full lips were pressed into a hard line, perfect brown eyes trained on the tile floor. “I don’t think you understand,”

 

“What don’t I understand?” Yuri asked, the edge in his voice only a result of the frustration he felt not being able to hold Otabek like he so desperately longed to. He hated being this conscious of his actions and emotions.

 

Otabek choked out a sardonic laugh. “You don’t know what you _do_ to me. How I hang on every word out of that _stupid_ sweet mouth of yours,”

 

Yuri thought perhaps his heart stopped. Did Otabek really just call his mouth sweet? “What?”

 

The Kazakh’s arms were crossed across his chest, tendons flexing visibly as he moved his hands agitatedly where Yuri couldn’t see them. “You _know_ how much I care for you, and you wave it off like it’s nothing,” now he raised his dark, slightly angled eyes to Yuri’s, and there was a burn there that made a cold fire blossom low in Yuri’s gut.

 

Otabek kept going, though, dark eyes locked on emerald green. “You go out and get drunk, and I’m the only one you _can_ call to come drag your sorry ass home. And suddenly I’m something attractive, someone you want to _screw._ But the moment you’re sober, I’m nothing.”

 

_I’m nothing. Someone you want to screw._ Oh, god, Yuri was _definitely_ too drunk for this. “Beka -”

 

“I’m not done.” Otabek’s voice wasn’t any louder than his normal speaking voice, but those words hit Yuri like a slap. “I don’t _mind_ you calling me when you’re alone. I don’t. And I’m _always_ going to be there to come get you, Yura. But I can’t do _this_ anymore -” he gestured sharply between their two bodies before crossing his arms tightly once more. “I can’t stand idly by while you complain about feeling alone until you get pissing drunk and remember _I’m_ a person, too, a person who might be alone, too. I’m _someone_.”

 

When Otabek fell silent, Yuri found himself wondering if the throb of his heartbeat was audible to him, too. It was horribly loud in his ears, anyway. This time, a tear fell onto his cheek - _serves me right_ , he thought bitterly. This wasn’t at all what Yuri had wanted - this wasn’t at all how he wanted Otabek to feel. Through tear-blurred vision, Yuri watched Otabek’s muscles tense and relax with his agitation, and an ache spread through his chest. _He’d_ done this, _he’d_ upset Otabek this much.

 

“Beka, look at me,” Yuri said, soft enough that he wondered if he might’ve only mouthed the words. Miraculously, Otabek looked up, head cocked slightly to the side and jaw still set, lips still pursed with agitation.

 

Yuri bit his lip, trying to find the words he needed to take away the hurt he’d caused Otabek. “I was scared, Beka, I was scared and I fucked up. And I drink too much when I don’t know how to act; I don’t know how to tell people how I feel. But Beka, Beka _listen_ to me. You - of course I care for you. Of course I do, Beka, it’s never _just_ because I’ve had  few drinks that I want to be held by you. That’s never the only reason,”

 

Otabek was still leaning against the island, arms still crossed over his chest. Would he believe the truth?

 

“I’m scared, Beka. I’m scared and I drink to try and be brave. I want to be brave for you. I want to be _yours_ but I’m scared.” Yuri sounded pitiful, even in his own ears. Hoarse from vomiting all that liquor, voice cracking from the tears that threatened to spill.

 

Yuri couldn’t help but open his arms and pray to a god he didn’t believe in that Otabek would come to him. Otabek closed his eyes for a heartbeat before closing the space between them with one large step. Yuri was taller than Otabek, even more so perched on the kitchen counter; Otabek rested his face against Yuri’s shoulder wordlessly. Yuri didn’t move when Otabek wrapped his arms around his waist, pushed his weight onto Yuri, slowly traced what felt like a short program into Yuri’s lower back.

 

Slowly, tentatively, Yuri moved his own hands to cradle Otabek’s head, one hand sliding up to release Otabek’s hair from the bun at the crown of his head. Otabek didn’t move as Yuri combed his fingers through the slightly tangled, loose curls, alternated between the undercut Otabek had kept over the years and the longer hair on top that Yuri had coaxed him to grow out.

 

“How do I _tell_ you that, Beka?” Yuri whispered tearfully into Otabek’s hair.

 

Against his shoulder, Otabek let out a hot exhale - what could be a chuckle, really - and groaned a curse in Kazakh. Yuri tugged lightly on Otabek’s hair, just enough to make Otabek pull his head back and raise an eyebrow at Yuri in annoyance.

 

“Don’t think I can’t figure out curse words just because they’re not in Russian,” Yuri said, smiling softly, trying to work his face into a scowl and failing. Joking. Silently begging Otabek to forgive him, silently asking if they were alright - if they’d _be_ alright. Otabek’s hands trailed up from Yuri’s waist, up to wrap his hands in the blond tresses that reached the middle of Yuri’s back, giving the hair a tug of his own.

 

“Yura, you act like you don’t have the dirtiest mouth in all of St. Petersburg,” he said with a smirk.

 

Yuri felt bold. He moved a hand from Otabek’s hair to cradle his cheek, loving the stubble and the soft skin against his hand. He stroked his cheek absently for a moment, searching Otabek’s impossible eyes for a sign. Could he even pick out anything without bias? Sure, he was slowly sobering up, but - oh, to hell with finding signs. He’d just have to ask. _Fuck_. Well, at least he’d had enough to drink to be able to let go of the majority of his inhibitions.

 

“Beka?”

 

Otabek hummed softly and raised his chin slightly, not looking away from Yuri’s eyes.

 

“I want to _kiss_ you,”

 

Something flickered in Otabek’s eyes, and Yuri felt fear clench in his gut. _He’s gonna say no, he just told me he doesn’t want to be wanted when I’m drunk,_ Yuri thought in a panic.

 

Hurriedly, thumb still stroking Otabek’s cheek, he added, “Not because I’m drunk. Well, maybe a little - but that’s not the point! I don’t want to kiss you _because_ I’m drunk,” he paused to take a breath. _Fuck, I’m not making any sense_ , Yuri clenched his own jaw, desperate to make Otabek understand. “Beka, I _always_ want to kiss you, don’t you -”

 

Yuri’s rambling was cut off by Otabek pressing his lips against Yuri’s, close-mouthed and warm, his upper lip resting between both of Yuri’s. Yuri couldn’t help but sigh against Otabek’s mouth, feeling the tension leave his shoulders. And of course Otabek pulled away first, a pink blush settling back on his cheekbones. Yuri pulled him back after a heartbeat, though, and Otabek let him. God, how had he ever lived without this, without Otabek’s lips on his?

 

“Tell me to stop,” it was just an exhale of breath, had Otabek even spoken?

 

When Otabek then opened his mouth against Yuri’s, he thought he’d surely died and gone to heaven. _Surreal_ . Yuri let him in, momentarily too stunned to do much but chase Otabek’s tongue belatedly with his own. _God, Otabek must think I’ve never been kissed - wait,_ have _I been kissed?_ Yuri’s mind was still sluggish with liquor, still trying to comprehend the warmth of Otabek against him. He was embarrassed, in a way, when he had to pull away all too soon to catch his breath.

 

There was that smug, shit-eating grin on Otabek’s lips now, lips slightly shiny with spit - _that’s_ my _spit_ , Yuri thought to himself with a far greater sense of wonderment than should rationally come from marveling at spit. He found himself leaning back in, just to grab a peck from Otabek, revelling in the way Otabek’s mouth felt against his own.

 

“I get to do this now?” he found himself asking, tongue tripping over his words from something other than the liquor he’d drunk, looking down at Otabek with wondering eyes.

 

Otabek laughed at that, a proper chuckle that Yuri felt vibrate in his belly. “Yes, kitten, you can do that,” and he pulled Yuri’s mouth back down to his own.

 

Yuri shivered at the endearment, or perhaps he shivered at Otabek’s tongue teasing along his upper lip. Viktor had called him a kitten before as a kind of diminutive, but from Otabek’s lips the word was almost reverent. He thought briefly of arguing that he was most certainly _not_ a kitten; he was a _tiger_ \- but he thought better of it, because if he was anyone’s kitten, he was definitely Otabek’s. _Otabek’s_.

 

“Beka?” Yuri asked, really more of a breath into Otabek’s mouth.

 

Otabek hummed again in response, and Yuri squirmed at the way it felt to _feel_ the hum more than hear it.

 

“Take me to bed?”

 

Under his hands, Otabek froze. Yuri immediately found himself trying to muddle back over his actions, to figure out what he’d said to make Otabek look at him so strangely.

 

“Oh! _Fuck_ , no, not like that!” he said as soon as he realized what Otabek had most likely interpreted from that. Dramatically, he leaned his weight forward onto Otabek’s broad shoulders. “I’m _drunk_ , you asshole. I just want to go to _bed_ ,”

 

Thankfully, Otabek seemed to understand. He smiled softly and ran a hand once more through Yuri’s hair. “Are you going to walk, kitten?”

 

“Why, are you going to _carry_ me?” Yuri asked, a thrill going through him. Sure, he had nearly eight centimeters on Otabek now, but would that stop him?

 

Otabek shrugged and pulled Yuri towards him. Yuri complied, wrapping his legs around Otabek’s hips and letting himself be scooped up in his arms. Otabek didn’t seem to be straining too much under Yuri’s weight - after all, he was still a slender thing at eighteen - and it seemed like he was setting Yuri back down in his bed in an instant. Yuri let Otabek manipulate him onto the bed; let him watch as Yuri wriggled out of the tight leopard print leggings (that had seemed a good idea at the time) leaving him only in Otabek’s too-large shirt and his skivvies; let Otabek pull the covers up over Yuri and press a kiss to his head. It wasn’t until Otabek stepped away from the bed that Yuri protested.

 

“Beka! Where are you going?” Yuri slurred, half-asleep already.

 

“To bed?” Otabek’s statement became a question as he regarded Yuri, who was fighting to keep his eyes open.

 

Yuri gave a kind of harrumph and scooted back on his bed, pulling the covers back.

 

Otabek rolled his eyes, but he shuffled over anyway, shrugging out of his jacket.

 

“Wait, Beka! Take your jeans _off_ ,” Yuri whined, grinning as Otabek rolled his eyes and stepped out of his jeans. If Yuri wasn’t fighting so hard to keep his eyes open, he’d see the soft flush already on Otabek’s cheeks

 

“This is dumb, Yura,” Otabek grumbled, but he slipped under the covers with Yuri anyway. Immediately Yuri was wrapped around him like an octopus, humming in a contented way that sounded most like a purr. Otabek thought he was asleep when Yuri jolted slightly and asked in a voice that sounded decidedly sobered (if not concerned), “Did you feed Potya?”

 

Otabek couldn’t help but chuckle and scoot back a little to press solidly against Yuri’s chest. “Yes, Yura, while you were freshening up,” as if on cue, Potya jumped up to settle on Yuri’s hip. Yuri sighed in relief and tucked his nose back into Otabek’s neck. When Otabek shifted to press a last kiss to Yuri’s head a moment later, the blond was already snoring softly.

 

So much for not sticking around, so much for finding someone else to be there to help Yuri through the certain hangover he’d be facing the next morning. Yuri would be cranky for certain. His earlier words, the wonderment of them settled in Otabek’s chest: _I get to do this now?_ Oh, definitely. They’d get through the next day together, face the darkness and the pain hand in hand.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in May and I've been forcing my friends to read and re-read it for long enough that I figured it's finally time to post it. The working title of this was something like "LEGIT CRYING IN THE CLUB" and honestly it's an idea I've loved a lot for a while, so I've been trepidatious about sharing it. Hopefully it's not too angsty, I hope y'all stick with it and with me :) Thank you so much to my friends for putting up with me all these months, and thanks for reading!


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